


Handling

by kscribbles



Category: Fright Night (2011)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kscribbles/pseuds/kscribbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Charley has to bathe Peter for some reason...he's injured or drunk or just manipulates the situation that way, who knows. Would love it if this leads to a first time handjob for Peter from Charley in the bath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handling

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lj community FrightNight2011's kinkmeme: http://frightnight2011.livejournal.com/718.html

“God, you're heavy,” Charley complained as he half-carried, half-dragged an injured Peter into his apartment as the sun set over Las Vegas. He wasn't really—dude was barely more than skin, bones, and Midori—but ribbing Peter made Charley feel a little less guilty about the near death they'd just escaped.

“No one's ever called me that before. And quit moaning. Would you rather I'd not sprained my ankle and just _let_ that vampire kill you? I'll remember that for next time.”

“Shut up, man.”

Charley deposited him in a chair and it seemed clouds of dust and dried mud puffed up around him as Peter “oof”ed into it and began removing his kill-something gear.

Charley set to gingerly removing Peter's shoes. The ankle was bad, and would be worse tomorrow, but it wasn’t broken.

“You're dirty too,” Charley said. “Look at yourself.”

Peter looked down at him with a smirk. “Well that I _have_ been called before.”

“Funny,” Charley answered dryly, standing up. He was relieved that Peter felt well enough to be... saucy.

“Again,” Peter said, his voice going a little squeaky like it did when he was indignant, “—sprained ankle, rolling around on the ground with a vampire to chivalrously defend your life, which I did brilliantly, by the way—I'd say I've earned a little filth.”

Yeah, he had. “Yeah, whatever, you're getting the chair all gross.”

“My chair,” Peter pointed out.

“Go take a shower, I'll take care of the weapons.”

“I’ll—”

Charley halted the suggestive pun in its tracks. “Don't even, dude.”

“You’re no fun.” Peter stood up and immediately fell back down, yelping in pain. “Little help?”

Charley sighed dramatically as he hoisted Peter up again, even though the last thing he felt was put upon. They traded off saving each other’s lives these days, and tonight… well, Charley owed him.

“Will you be okay?” Charley asked when they made it to the bathroom.

Peter leaned against the wall. “Yeah, I…” And then he tentatively put his weight down on his swollen foot. “Oh. Maybe not. I don't think I can stand long enough for a shower. Help me with the bath.”

Charley went to the tub to turn on the taps, and even over the sound of rushing water hitting porcelain, he heard Peter's loud wince of pain.

He turned to see Peter struggling to get his shirt off. “What is it?” he asked. “What else is wrong?”

“My wrist, man,” Peter said through his T-shirt. “I hadn't even noticed.”

Charley helped him get the shirt off his head and examined his right wrist. It had the beginnings of an angry bruise and Peter gasped when Charley touched it, but like his ankle, it seemed like only a bad sprain.

“You'll live,” Charley proclaimed. He eyed Peter's long torso. A few scratches, but nothing looked bruised. “Your ribs okay?” He ran his hands gently along them.

Peter sucked in a deep breath. “I think so. Here, hold still.”

Leaning on Charley's shoulder, balancing carefully on one leg and grunting with the exertion, Peter used his good hand to undo his belt and pants and shove them down far enough for gravity do the rest. Charley rolled his eyes. Peter _would_ go commando.

“Well take a good look, kid,” Peter said, teasingly, clearly catching Charley looking. Which he wasn’t. Really.

In case Charley was blushing, which he totally was not, he quickly moved out of Peter's grip to go turn off the taps.

“Oh what?” Peter went on. “You got me out of bed before dawn. Who has time for pants?”

“Yeah, clearly not you,” Charley said, turning back. “Come on, I'll help you in.”

It took balance and patience, but Charley finally settled Peter in the bath without further injuring them or soaking himself.

“Thanks,” Peter said as he slid into the warm water. He dunked himself and then surfaced, waving his undamaged hand dismissively. “Go... handle the weapons.”

“Right,” Charley said, slowly turning to go, though he wasn’t really sure he wanted to leave Peter alone right now. And okay, maybe Charley kinda didn't want to _be_ alone. Brushes with death will do that to a guy. But short of offering to wash Peter’s back, which he had no intentions of doing... “Yeah, I'll just go—”

But he was stopped by another of Peter's grunts of pain. He looked back to see him fumbling with the shampoo.

Charley sighed again. “What? I'm going to have to _bathe_ you too?” What was that about intentions?

“No, I can do it!” Peter exclaimed, frowning as he fumbled some more. He got the cap undone, but couldn't manage to squeeze the bottle. He threw it across the tub in frustration. “God I'm useless,” he grumbled, as the bottle clattered against porcelain and then sank by his feet.

“You're not useless.” Charley knelt by the tub and carefully fished out the bottle. “You're hurt. There's a difference.”

“I’m not a baby, Charley. I have been injured before. You don’t need to coddle me.”

“I’m not. I’m helping. And I wouldn’t be here _to_ help if you hadn’t gone and got yourself hurt. Circle of life. So quit bitching and let me wash your hair for you.” Not a sentence Charley ever thought he’d say.

Peter huffed, but said nothing else, leaning his head back against the rim and closing his eyes. Charley knelt on the tile at the head of the tub, squeezed out some shampoo and ran his fingers through Peter’s hair. Peter sighed and Charley saw that he was beginning to relax. He slowly worked the shampoo into a lather, making sure to massage Peter’s scalp well to get all the gunk out.

Peter moaned softly, and Charley stopped, not sure if the sound was pained or pleased.

“Sorry, does that hurt?” Charley asked.

“Does my _hair_ hurt?” Peter said in his, patented ‘you're a bit of an idiot, Charley’ tone. “No,” he said more gently, “It's good. Keep going.” Charley began massaging his head again and Peter sighed, contentedly. “I might be the illusionist, but you, Charley, your hands are magic.” Another soft moan escaped his lips.

“Uh, thanks.” Charley cleared his throat, feeling uncomfortable with the praise and for... other reasons that didn't bear thinking about. Like how maybe he wanted to make Peter moan again. Which he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about. And totally didn’t just think.

He quickly rinsed out Peter's hair and, deciding to forgo conditioner, switched to sponge and body wash. Methodically, he lathered and rinsed Peter’s neck, shoulders, arms, and back, and Peter, thankfully, stayed silent. Charley thought he might have fallen asleep. But when he scooted around to the side of the tub to get to Peter’s face and chest, he saw that that was very much not the case.

Peter eyes were wide open, dark and staring at him. And when he glanced down, he saw that other bits of Peter were wide awake too, and only half-submerged in bathwater. Oh.

“Dude.” Charley said, pretending to be annoyed, when he was actually… flattered? Should he be weirded out?

“Oh so that's my fault as well, is it?” Peter snapped. “I'm heavy, dirty, AND I get a hard on when someone beautiful touches me.”

Charley spluttered, caught more off guard by this second compliment than by the fact that he’d turned on Peter Fucking Vincent, who also happened to be a dude. “I'm not beaut—”

“Oh shut up.” Peter angrily grabbed the sponge from him with his left hand. “Go on. I think I can finish the rest myself. Fuck off and let me have a wank in peace.”

Charley blinked, knowing he should do as Peter said, get up and leave and pretend this had never happened. But he found he didn’t want to pretend. And before he could give it further thought, he snatched the sponge back and resumed his task. He ducked his eyes, certain he couldn’t look at him when he said this. “But... you hurt your wrist.”

Peter made a choked, laughing sound.

Charley bit his lip and then bit the proverbial bullet, meeting Peter’s eyes. The other man wore an amused, _impressed_ smile. “So I have.”

Charely swallowed. “So I’m helping,” he shot back, running the sponge over Peter’s chest in broad strokes, getting ever closer to Peter’s groin. He dipped under the water and ran the sponge over Peter’s hips and heard his sharp intake of breath. Skipping the hard cock that was begging for his attention, he thoroughly cleaned Peter’s lean legs, down to the feet and back up. Charley could swear he heard every ripple of water, every droplet on the tile, each breath he and Peter took. He felt sweat beading on his forehead and blood head an entirely different direction.

“Charley,” Peter said seriously. “This wasn’t in the job description.”

“I don’t care,” he said, ditching the sponge and meeting Peter’s eyes again.

Peter raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Charley lowered his eyes again, dipped a hand beneath the water once more and ran it from Peter’s knee, up his thigh and finally, onto his cock.

Peter’s hips jerked at the contact, and he hissed, but then relaxed as Charley slowly stroked. Peter’s cock was hard, smooth, hot, and familiar, in an entirely alien way. And the angle was strange, leaned over him like this, but Charley seemed to be doing something right once he’d found a rhythm, judging by the sounds Peter was making, the stuttering movements of his hips, how his left hand shot up and clutched at Charley’s damp sleeve.

He stroked faster, suddenly, desperately wanting to see it, watch another man, _this man_ , come.

He chanced another look up at Peter, whose head was thrown back, eyes shut tight, his long neck tense. How could Peter think _Charley_ was the one who was beautiful?

“Magical—fucking—hands,” Peter choked out through his teeth, and then he was coming. His whole body froze rigid in the bath and then hot come mixed with lukewarm bathwater surged over Charley’s fingers, the long groan that rumbled through Peter’s chest shooting directly to Charley’s own cock. Charley kept stroking through it, slowing his hand down and finally stopping as Peter’s body relaxed.

He rinsed his hand off and sat back, watching Peter’s chest heave as he caught his breath. _I did that_ , Charley thought, and he knew, right then, that he wanted to make this happen again and again. Fuck weirdness or whatever was supposed to be normal. They passed that the second Peter lit him on fire weeks ago.

“Fuck, Charley,” Peter breathed, opening his eyes and lazily looking at him.

“Not tonight,” Charley smiled. “I draw the line at hand jobs.”

Peter eyed him. “Help me out of this tub.”

 

FIN


End file.
